Last Station
by wintry
Summary: Chapter TWO- In which Draco must push a food cart, Harry gets kicked out of the kitchen, and a waiter named Robin saves the day. Just your typical morning in the dining car. Beware of the slash (coming soon...)
1. Chapter ONE

A/N: "I don't own anything." Right then. Now, on to other things- this is my newest project. My other two chaptered stories are 'The Dragon in Winter' (finished) and 'Palindromes' (WIP). Go check them out and review, as I'm reasonably proud enough of my brainchildren to want to pimp them madly. 

Note that both are slash, as this will be. Note also that this fic may quite possibly get to be more graphic with the slash. Now that you've been warned, I hope you enjoy and review to your heart's content. Reviews make Wintry's day. Con crits are even better. E-mail me with questions!

**Last Station**

_What could you give me in consolation?_

_Your broken shadows?___

_What's__ left of your heart when all you've got to offer_

_is__ the time of day?_

---

_Chapter ONE_

Dear Mother, 

Today Madame is taking me to see the fashion district. As you seem ill-disposed to sending me my measurements, I suppose I'll have to be refitted. Pity. They say Paris is first class but I've yet to adjust to their taste in robes. The fabric Madame insisted fit me so well was perfectly _hideous._ I don't suppose I shall ever trust her judgment again. 

The piano lessons are going as planned. As for dance, there is no partner who can match me. Madame was quite pleased, though I feel bored by this arrangement. I don't doubt your decision, Mother, but she is not all that I expected. Her eating habits are awful- I can barely stand to dine with her anymore. 

When will you let me come home? I miss the Estate, and I daresay my Quidditch skills aren't going to be what they used to be. Yesterday, at breakfast, I tried to recall the maneuver Polakoff was showing me before I left, only to find that my grip has, again, slipped into the wrong wrist-arm angle. Madame had no sympathy for me. She is quite the cold-hearted old French woman, except when it comes to her shoes. She cares far more about her shoes than she cares about any living wizard. It can't be normal. 

Wasn't I educated far better at home? Yes, France is quite a necessary experience, and yes, I like to travel. And I certainly won't go against tradition. But at my age, I would think this sort of schooling is unnecessary. _Bon nuit _from Paris, _Maman_. Send my regards to Father. Even if you won't be reading this letter.

All my love,

      *

---

"Who're you writing to?"

Lawrence snapped his head up sharply. By instinct, he slid a hand over his parchment to hide it from prying eyes. "No one. It shouldn't matter to you. Leave me alone." 

The girl stared at him for a moment, then shrugged and went back to wiping down the tables. The dining car was empty this late at night. 

"Sorry I asked," she muttered. 

Her hair, tied back to keep it out of her eyes, dangled past her shoulders and swung distractingly as she scrubbed in constant circles. The water swirled across the tabletop and dried from the outside in.  

Lawrence sighed, massaged his temples, and turned back to his letter. The ink had smeared, like always. He folded it up anyway and, smoothing the creases out of his envelope, he sealed everything and set the finished letter aside. 

"Done?" she asked, knowing better than to look up for an answer. 

"No," he snapped irritably. "I'm not going to help you with the tables."

She sniffed. "That's not what I asked you for and you know it. I'm just trying to make some conversation." She finished off a table with a satisfied swipe, surveyed her work, then moved on to the next. "It's always so quiet here."

Lawrence gave a short and decidedly hollow laugh. "This train, quiet? I can-" He reached for his teacup. The train hit a sudden jolt on the tracks and he had barely enough time to curse before he was drenched.  

"Bloody-!"

"Keep it down." She walked over and leaned across the table, trying to soak up some of the tea with her table rag. "Do you want the passengers to complain? Then Miles will really come down on you."

"Let him." He pulled out his wand and, pointing it at his shirt, he was dry with a quick spell. Watching him, she worried her lip. "What? Are you going to tell me I'm holding my wand wrong or something?"

"No," she said too quickly. "I'm...getting back to work. If you're done with your letter, well- you should too. Miles will be looking for you out at your post."

Of course he would. Miles was always after him. "Fine. I'm going." He stood up, thrusting the half-empty tea-cup into her free hand. She cradled it there as if it was a holy relic. "And here I was, believing you when you said you wanted conversation." 

"But I-" she began, startled, but by then he had pushed open the connecting door and was finished listening anyway. 

Train doors are rather different than normal doors. They slide open on a track when one applies a bit of force to them, and they sort of fold in upon themselves, in sections; at least, that was how it worked on his train. They also sprung back at a surprising speed, with a tendency to jam. 

He found them annoying at the best of times. Tonight was one of those humid nights, where everything seemed to stick fast to his skin. In the short walking space between two rattling cars, he managed to develop a fine sweat and it only made matters worse. 

And then the door jammed.

He almost didn't believe it for a second. He had himself balanced with his feet planted so that the train couldn't shake him too badly, something he had learned within his first day working on the job, but it was an awkward angle for trying to force a door. 

Not that he knew how. 

He knocked loudly before he could think of anything else to do. Knocked and then began kicking; it was like throwing a tantrum. There was no way in hell he wanted to go back and make conversation with that stupid girl. He was tired of listening, when sometimes he wondered if he ought to be. 

Father had always said- but no, that wasn't right. Father wasn't a man he could trust to get answers from anymore. Lawrence felt vaguely immoral giving any sort of credit to Father now; it was like referring to someone in past tense, as if they'd died, while you still spoke with them by day. It'd be like doing him an injustice. 

But Father was in any condition to defend himself. They say even a week in Azkaban can rip a sane man's mind to shreds, and Father had been there ever since fifth year. 

The last time Lawrence visited Father was what they call 'a good day.' Meaning, they managed to sit him up, and made sure he wasn't shaking too badly, meaning that he wasn't in one of his rages, meaning he could almost call Lawrence by his given name.

'Good day my arse,' he'd told the guard on his way out. 

'Mr. Malfoy?' 

And then he'd whirled furiously back on the man, reaching for his wand all the while. But there's a reason why men like that are trusted as Azkaban's guards; before anyone else could have properly reacted, the guard had already gotten his wand level with Lawrence's breastbone. 

Attacking then would only have been a stupid, hopeless move, so he didn't. But he was still driven far enough out of his head to think that it seemed like a good idea. 

'Don't be moving, now. If I Stunned you like this, you'd be lucky if you were out cold for less than a day,' the guard warned in a low voice. Lawrence bared his teeth, seething. 

'You- _you_-'

'Something the matter, Mr. Malfoy?' 

'No! Don't call me that! Don't you- don't you _dare_ call me that! My father-'

'Your father,' the man had interrupted, 'is sitting inside in a place where they only let prisoners out to shit, eat, and bathe- if they're good. What exactly do you think he can do to me, out here? Tell me, _Mr. Draco Malfoy_. What is it you think you can do?'

Whatever it was he'd been trying, whatever the hell he'd believed he could accomplish, he didn't. He'd Disapparated before he let the guard make him a fool. It was only later that he began to realize that, by then, it was probably too late. 

Thinking about it wasn't going to change anything. Lawrence leaned his head against the dark glass between his arms and peered inside. Someone was finally coming to get the door for him. 

It was difficult to make out the figure; the lamps in the narrow corridor were dimmed at night and generally undependable. With a bit of effort, Lawrence saw the passenger emerge from his compartment, wipe his eyes, and attempt some bleary steps towards the door. He put on a pair of glasses. 

It was almost as if Lawrence had put on a pair of his own; he froze, suddenly blinded. He felt his pulse pounding in his temples, and for a second, he was terrified, because he was convinced he could hear it too, like a rush and an answering roar in his ears. It drowned out the sound of the train absolutely. 

He fled back to the dining car. 

The girl looked up to find him breathing as if he'd run a marathon. "Back again? You look like you've seen a banshee," she exclaimed, brandishing her towel rag towards him with a delighted expression. 

'Fuck you,' he growled in his mind. 

"No. Not quite," he gasped pleasantly. He moved in on her until she squealed (he pretended to ignore it) and fell back onto a table that was still wet. "Did I ever tell you?" he murmured into her ear. "I can't take my eyes off your hair."  

Outside, the passenger stood in the doorway for a long time. He had been so sure that someone had been knocking. So sure. 

"Malfoy?" he called, not too loudly. "Malfoy?"


	2. Chapter TWO

A/N: Thanks to my reviewers! It's good to know that I've got a little bit of an audience...this one's for you! Sorry it took so long. Can't seem to find as much time these days...

So here it is, what you've all been waiting for:

_Chapter TWO_

Morning on a train is one of the busiest times of the day. People begin to rebel from hours of inactivity and seem to want everything at once- breakfast, hot water, the morning paper- and they always seem to want it right away.

The dining car was already buzzing with early diners at six. Tables filled quickly and stayed filled, even when the lanterns gave more light than the barely-risen sun. 

Lawrence had been up since four, running and fetching for the kitchens. He'd spent the entire time looking over his shoulders and avoiding the passenger cars, but now that the day was getting started, he had no real choice. 

"Is the cart ready yet?" he called from the doorway. He had to step aside to let a stream of waitresses through, holding the door open for them reluctantly. When he had squeezed through after they'd passed, he stood himself in his corner and waited for a minute. Getting an answer in the kitchen often involved asking the same question again and again. 

He then tried again. "Cart ready?" he asked loudly. No one was listening today- then again, he reminded himself, no one could possibly hear. Pans clattered on the stovetop, cooking sausages by tens, and there was a smell of bread or scones in the air, and coffee like a constant afterthought below everything. The kitchens worked like an organized calamity, manned by pantry chefs and the three or so cooks that it took to feed the huge train. 

"Cart ready?"

"Keep your voice down."

Lawrence stared. The man himself was yelling.

The head chef wiped his wand on the front of his apron and wove his way through. "Delays, these sodding delays- how long can you afford to wait here?"

"Ah-"

"Be exact, if you please," he said briskly. Did everything he did have to brisk? Lawrence couldn't think of seeing the chef sit still or, now that he thought about it, even sleep. "I'm busy," he continued, "And I haven't got time to be inexact. I can't guarantee less than a six minute wait, I'm afraid, perhaps even seven- these sodding delays, I can't understand how we get behind like this!- everyone back-"

He scurried away, muttering. Lawrence went back into the corner and set an upended stool back to rights before settling himself on it. It had one shorter leg that always set it off balance; he leaned back and forth thoughtfully, wondering if it'd be worth the effort to demand for a coffee. In the end, he decided against it.

Every time the door swung open, it the hit the side the stool and blocked out the light. Lawrence amused himself for by trying to ignore the alternating flashes of light and dark. For a while, he thought it reminded him of riding in a train and seeing the countryside flash in and out of focus- that had always happened in the beginning, when he tried to see everything at once and then felt stupid enough about it that he stopped looking out altogether. 

But making train analogies while working on a train was also stupid. He gave up on it, closing his eyes and reclining a little, not far enough to fall. He hadn't slept much last night, so now he would have to pay the consequences. He fought sleep hazily but mostly lost and didn't much care about it, either. 

Somewhere far off he heard the door open and tap against his stool. This time it stayed dark; he frowned and leaned his head so it just brushed the door, but didn't open his eyes.

"...what are you doing here, this is-" That was Robin. Lawrence only knew the bloke well enough to recognize his voice.  

The reply was what made him open his eyes. 

"I know, it's just-" 

Lawrence was suddenly awake- in fact, he never wanted to sleep again. His hands had gone numb and he when he shook out his fingers it was as if they were weighted down with sand. 

"I'm sorry, Sir, we don't make exceptions for anyone. You'll have to leave the kitchen unless you have something specific you'd like- as you can see, it's very crowded."

'_Get him out of here, Robin_,' he thought uneasily, repeating it like a mantra in his mind. '_Don't__ let him find me, don't let him find me here..._' He felt sick and cold all over, thinking this, and he felt like such a coward for hiding. He was absolutely helpless.   

"I'm not doing anything against the rules. I only came here-"

'_Fuck you, Potter._' All this time...if he was found out now...Thinking about it made him physically ill. 

"Whatever it is, I'm sure someone outside can help you."

"Shut the hell up-"

"Sir!-"

"Stop trying to get rid of me and listen for a bit, will you? God. I'm not doing anything illegal coming here. I'm only looking for someone." 

'_Of course you are, bastard. You've been hunting me down all along.'_

"Sir-"

"Just let me finish. I'll get out of your way very quickly, I promise. His name-," Potter interrupted, "-is Draco Malfoy."

The kitchen seemed to go silent, though Lawrence probably only imagined that part. He held his breath and then just wouldn't seem to let go. 

"What are you suggesting, Sir?" asked Robin too levelly after what seemed like a very long time. There was a definite chill in his voice. "That we hire criminals?" Someone laughed, then stopped awkwardly when she realized that no one else had. 

"No! I-"

"I'm asking you to leave now. We don't want anyone causing trouble on our train."

"I'm not!" Potter protested. "I didn't mean-"

"There are no Malfoys _here_, I can promise you that."

"Stop it, just _wait_, I know he's here, will you?- " 

"I'm asking you to leave now. Put up a fuss and I'll have to call in someone to show you out."

The passenger inhaled deeply several times. Lawrence peered past the hinges of the door, through the crack, and saw clenched fists held tightly to his sides, Muggle clothing- a pair of ill-fitting grayed jeans-  

"Fine," Lawrence heard him snarl. "I'm leaving. I don't think you realize who I am."

Robin laughed gently. "I beg your pardon, Sir, but Idon't think it matters." Lawrence caught the sound of plates clinking. The door opened wider for a moment as Robin pushed past the passenger and disappeared into a maze of tables; Lawrence quickly pulled his head away before it met with disaster. 

For awhile nothing happened. The man was silent. The kitchen staff had gone back to carefully ignoring him- the waiters treated him as a simple roadblock and went out of their way to avoid him. 

"_Customer service my arse_," he said, making one last attempt. The under-his-breath complaint was audible throughout the kitchen- Lawrence was sure that it was meant to be exactly that way. Everyone continued to ignore him.

He left in a state of absolute fury. 

The door swung shut and Lawrence sat blinking at the light. Though his mind was still reeling, he patiently went through each of his limbs, coaxing them to relax. After he had gone through his entire body, he realized that it was no use. He buried his face in his hands. God. 

"Look, if you're not ill then you need to get your arse up now and go around with the cart." Lawrence didn't want to look up. He would rather have jumped in front of the train and yelled 'Come and get me, big boy'. But he looked up anyway, thinking that he would probably regret it by late this afternoon, when the sleep-deprivation kicked in.

The head chef poked him in the foot with the front of the cart. Several times. Lawrence gave him a blank stare, received no response, and then sighed. 

"Is the cart ready yet?" he asked wearily. 


End file.
